


Learning Curves

by GrumpyGhostOwl



Series: Battle of the Planets: 2163 [1]
Category: Battle of the Planets
Genre: Gen, Other, Snark, Things-fall-down-go-"Boom!"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:52:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5808742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpyGhostOwl/pseuds/GrumpyGhostOwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cold war between the Federation of Peaceful Planets and Spectra is heating up. Spectra continues to expand its hegemony and has attacked Riga, an Allied World. The ISO's new secret weapon - G-Force - is yet to be deployed and its five members are impatient for action. When Spectra sends a ship to attack Center City, how will they respond? Meanwhile, Galaxy Security has been assigning bodyguards to all the ISO Chiefs of Staff, but Chief Anderson is resistant to having his own security upgraded, to the chagrin of his colleagues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If you desire peace...

**Author's Note:**

> The events described in this story occur about a month prior to 'Attack of the Space Terrapin' (ie: Episode One of BotP.)

 

 

 

David Anderson stared at the date on his desk calendar: March 5th, 2161. He'd been Chief of Galaxy Security for exactly five months and was now past the point where he considered it a good day if he managed to keep his head above water. Possibly, just possibly, he might be lucky enough to start achieving things if he kept working at it. The calendar's motto for the day was a quote from Miles Franklin: _It's a sign of your own worth sometimes if you are hated by the right people_. Anderson pondered the sentiment for a moment and decided he felt a little better about life in general. He checked his schedule. His first meeting of the day was with Theodore O'Hara, Galaxy Security’s Director of Internal Security.

 

Anderson finished reading his paper mail and got out of the big leather chair. He'd had to cut his morning run short thanks to a phone call from the Vice President's office about a question on notice for an upcoming Federation Council Session, and he was feeling restless. He crossed the big office and stopped a foot or so short of the picture window that overlooked Center City. A hundred floors above street level in the ISO Tower, the office of the Chief of Galaxy Security was an eagle's eyrie from which a far seeing predator might oversee his domain with all due arrogance.

 

Anderson was still working on the 'due arrogance' part. His predecessor hadn't left any notes on how one might cultivate the galactic hubris that had come to be synonymous with the job in previous years. He wondered if people could tell that he was still mostly bluffing.

 

His reflection looked back at him through the tinted armoured glass: a tall man of forty-seven, Anderson didn't really look the part of the senior intelligence executive. Part of him, he knew, would always be the science geek more at home in a lab coat than a suit. A gossamer thread of recalcitrance in the weft of Anderson's psyche led him to eschew the designer suits favoured by his colleagues in preference for a waistcoat that didn't quite match his jacket and a tendency to get little ink stains in his shirt pockets. Since his early teens, Anderson had been obliged to make use of corrective lenses. He wore lightweight _pince nez_ style spectacles with fine titanium-alloy rims. The high-tech polymer lenses caught the sunlight filtering in through the window and reflected it back on itself, making his expression unreadable. Sometimes it bothered Anderson to think of being less than three years away from fifty. He didn't think of himself as being middle-aged and had difficulty imagining what it was supposed to be like. Despite the pressures of his job, the years had been easy on him. He still had a thick mane of dark red-brown hair with only a few strands of grey sneaking in near his temples and one or two silvery hairs were starting to infiltrate his moustache. He was careful to exercise regularly and ate, well... more or less sensibly, if one believed the veracity of the claims to nutritional balance on the boxes of 'healthy' microwaveable frozen meals and pouches of soup. He drank too much coffee and (in his own estimation) not enough Scotch.

 

March fifth. Exactly five months in the big chair. Was it really a year since Lillian had left? Just over, truth be told. It occurred to him that he couldn't remember when he'd stopped counting the weeks, but it had been some time ago. That had to be a good thing, didn't it?

 

"I can't marry you," she'd said, and handed him back the ring.

 

They'd been engaged for almost six months.

 

Anderson could remember feeling that his world _ought_ to be crashing down around his ears, and a sense of being somewhat short-changed when it unaccountably failed to do so. This was followed by an odd, detached numbness. "I see," he'd said, even though he didn't, not really. Something in his mind switched to automatic pilot. "If you were happy, you wouldn't be doing this," he reasoned, mostly to himself -- her presence was extraneous to that process. "So it follows that I haven't made you happy." QED. There had been signs, of course. He simply hadn't been paying attention. The realisation was too little, too late.

 

"It isn't you," she said. "It's me."

 

"Ah." Familiar words. He just hadn't expected them from Lily. They'd got past most of the points where he usually heard that line. When she'd agreed to marry him, he'd thought himself safe. He'd been wrong, that much was plain.

 

"Actually, it _is_ you," she corrected herself in the face of his silence. "As well as me. You. And me."

 

"I see," he said again (which didn't make it any more true than the last time but it filled the space.) "I respect your decision. I'll have your mail redirected and --"

 

"Do you have to be so damned reasonable?" she said, blinking back tears and folding her arms across her midriff. He watched her pace back and forth, her shining dark gold hair moving in a bright drift down her back. He'd probably never feel his fingers catching in those silky tresses again, he realised with a jolt.

 

"It hasn't sunk in, yet," he admitted.

 

"Can't you get angry or something?" she demanded, her ivory skin colouring as it always did when her emotions took over. "Shout at me? Scream? Throw something? _React_ to this!"

 

"I can't, right now," he said. "Your need for recrimination's just going to have to wait." It hurt, surely. It was _supposed_ to hurt, yet all he could feel was this odd numbness.

 

"I seem to have spent most of our relationship _waiting_ ," she said, bitterly.

 

"I'm never there for you," he said, anticipating what would come next.

 

"That's right," she said. "Even when you're here, you're not _here_ ," she accused him. "Galaxy Security comes first, second and third with you. How can I possibly marry you when you're already married to your job?"

 

There wasn't much he could say to counter what he knew to be true. At least she hadn't brought the children into it. "I don't think I can change that, Lily," he told her.

 

"Even if you were willing to change, it's too late," she said. "You don't love me the way I need to be loved."

 

A question came to mind. "Is there someone else?"

 

She blanched at that and he couldn't tell whether it was with indignation or guilt. "Would you react if there was?" she asked him.

 

"I don't know. Maybe we could talk later," he said. "I need some time to think."

 

"You do too much of that, already," she flung at him, and walked out.

 

She was right, he realised, once he'd had time to absorb the import of her decision. Lillian wanted someone for whom she could be the bright centre of the universe rather than a pleasant incidental, wanted an all-consuming passion, wanted -- needed -- to be told, and more importantly, to _believe_ that he couldn't live without her.

 

The trouble was that he could.

 

David Anderson had taken refuge in his work (which was to say his schedule didn't change very much at all.) He missed Lillian, but there was so much work to do, as there always was, and one day blended in to the next. At some point -- he couldn't remember the day or the date, but it was bound to be in his diary somewhere -- he'd donated the diamond solitaire to the Interplanetary Red Cross for a charity auction. _That_ had hurt, he recalled. Not because of the money, but because it represented what was possibly one of the biggest failures of his life. He'd loved Lily and he hadn't been able - no, if he was going to be honest, he hadn't been _willing to make the effort_ \- to make her happy enough to stay.

 

Trouble came in cycles, as usual: Lillian's departure was followed by the abrupt resignation of Dr Benjamin Strecker, head of the Tronic Beam Project. A bare two weeks after that, intelligence confirmed that Spectra was winding up to begin overt hostilities. The ISO Council had barely managed to convene to discuss the possibility of open war when Security Chief Conway was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour. Rather than face a slow death, Conway kept the news to himself, spent a pleasant family weekend at Camp Parker, took his service revolver to the shore of Lake Conway and ended his life on his own terms, catapulting Anderson to the role of Acting Chief of Galaxy Security. The appointment was quickly ratified by the Federation Council on the personal recommendation of President Alexander Kane, and there was even more work to do.

 

Now, like a man testing a sore tooth, Anderson dared to look at the empty place in his heart. It was still there, but like an old wound, it was closing over to form a scar. The engagement had lasted six months, the relationship itself three years. Was healing supposed to happen this fast after you lost the love of your life? Or had he been wrong about that, too? Lillian had seemed to think so. "I wasn't the one for you," she'd said when she came to collect her things.

 

"How do you know?" he'd wondered aloud. He'd been fairly sure -- at least he'd hoped, which surely amounted to much the same thing -- that she was.

 

"Maybe you just aren't the 'in love' type," she'd said. It had been a relatively amicable break up, but it had its moments. She never had answered his question about whether or not there was somebody else, he realised. In one sense, it didn't matter, not if he compartmentalised the relationship -- after all, happy people don't stray as a general rule -- but then it didn't matter at all, in the scheme of things. She was still just as gone, either way.

 

A falcon flashed by the window, clutching something in its talons. A couple of small blue-grey feathers floated and danced on the updraught from the Tower. _Pigeon_ , Anderson noted idly.

 

Through the open doorway of his office, Anderson heard his administrative officer's voice: "Go on in, sir. He's expecting you."

 

Anderson didn't turn away from the window. He watched Director O'Hara's reflected image enter the room. "Morning, Ted," Anderson said, addressing the glass.

 

"David," O'Hara said. “I won’t take up too much of your time. I’m due at the Academy.” Theodore O'Hara sat down without being asked and began shuffling manila folders. The Internal Security Director was a slightly built, dapper man with a penchant for Italian silk suits. O'Hara was losing the last of his hair but not his insistence on working by the book. Anderson left off his perusal of the cityscape and resumed occupancy of the chair behind his desk.

 

O’Hara rested his hands on a pile of manila folders on the desk in front of him. "You’ll be pleased to know that a significant percentage of new recruits at all our Academies are expressing a desire to pursue careers in Protective Services,” he announced. “We won’t be facing any personnel shortages in the foreseeable future.”

 

“That’s good news,” Anderson said.

 

“Indeed it is,” O’Hara said. “In fact I’m about to head over to Brewer to talk to the latest intake about Galaxy Security career paths. The response to our advertising campaign has been most gratifying.”

 

“Glad to hear it. So they don’t all want to be Plain Clothes?”

 

“I wish you wouldn’t use those terms,” O’Hara said.

 

“Ted,” Anderson said, “everybody uses those terms: Uniforms, Lab Coats, Plain Clothes and Suits. It’s part of the culture. It doesn’t hurt anyone.”

 

“It suggests a lack of respect. Don’t you find it belittling to be referred to as a Suit?”

 

“It doesn’t really bother me,” Anderson said. “Colonel Hawking always used to call me a Lab Coat, even after we’d been on half a dozen missions together.”

 

“I really don’t think we should encourage it,” O’Hara insisted.

 

“What else did you want to discuss?” Anderson asked, letting the issue slide.

 

“In light of our complete lack of a staff shortage,” O’Hara began, and held up a finger when Anderson made to interrupt, “I’m here specifically to talk to you about upgrading your personal security. Every other ISO Chief of Staff has a full twelve-man detail, while you persist in keeping only one officer and a driver.”

 

"Look, Ted,” Anderson argued, "I have bigger issues to deal with at the moment. Lieutenant Maxwell's reliable and he does a good job."

 

"Of course he does," O'Hara agreed. "For peace time. We're about to go on to a war footing, all the other squads are in place and you’re the only Chief of Staff resisting the upgrade. Conway tabled the draft policy eighteen months ago and you signed off on it."

 

"Naturally, I support it in principle, but _I_ don't need extra security," Anderson insisted.

 

O'Hara took a deep breath. "According to an ISO motion with your name on it, you do," he said. One hand tapped the pile of folders as he placed them neatly and precisely next to Anderson's blotter. "I've selected some candidates for you to review and short list."

 

"For what?"

 

"For the new position of Personal Security Coordinator to the Chief of Galaxy Security," O'Hara said. "David," he warned, "if you don't short list some candidates, I will." He got up and left before Anderson could argue further.

 

Peeved, Anderson turned his attention to the latest intelligence reports from Riga. He had plenty of other things to worry about before he'd get around to Ted O'Hara's personnel files: his next meeting, for instance, with the President and his fellow Chiefs of Staff who made up the Interplanetary Security Organisation Council.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Even lower on Security Chief Anderson's list of worry priorities than the number of bodyguards he was to be assigned was a little planet called Vega. Planet Vega was neither a mover nor a shaker when it came to interplanetary politics, even within the Federation, of which it was a Charter Member, but Veganians (who hated being referred to as Vegans) took a particular pride in the fact that they had always made a positive contribution to the Federation in the areas of art, science and primary production, and Federation Day, the anniversary (by the Arcturan calendar) of the inception of the Intergalactic Federation of Peaceful Planets, was invariably celebrated in style across the galaxy. Vega could hardly let the holiday pass without a party and even Galaxy Security got in on the act.

 

Wilson Greenaway was a career bureaucrat. He had always been ambitious but had a tendency toward self-indulgence that slowed his progress somewhat. If Wil Greenaway wanted something, Wil Greenaway went out and got it. It had given David Anderson a certain amount of vindictive satisfaction several years earlier when, in his capacity as Deputy Chief of Galaxy Security, he had approved Greenaway's promotion to the position of Director Planetary Operations for Galaxy Security's Veganian Division. Greenaway had only applied for the posting because his wife Jemima had begged him to do so. Jemima Greenaway had family on Vega and Wilson had asked for the job on the basis that he wouldn't get it. It turned out, however, that he was the best applicant. Anderson had enjoyed watching his colleague go pale as he congratulated him on his success. The rumour mill went wild with stories (some of them even approaching accuracy) about the extent of the tantrum thrown by Greenaway's mistress when she heard about the transfer.

 

On Federation Day, it was traditional for Vega's DPO to hold a reception at the official residence which was a highlight of the social calendar. In the morning, the Director attended the traditional service of thanksgiving celebrated by His Grace the Right Reverend Jeremy Harrington, Episcopalian Archbishop of Planet Vega's capital, Carsarum. Wilson Greenaway was not a particularly pious man. His interest in the church was of a far more secular nature, to wit the person of one Aurelia Bowles-Harrington, His Grace's other half. Mrs Greenaway wasn't in town, having gone to stay with her sister in the rural Sherwood region to recuperate from a 'recent illness.' Rumour among the security staff had it that Jemima Greenaway was afflicted with marital thrombosis, which was to say she had a clot for a husband.

 

Archbishop Harrington's sermon lasted a full fifteen minutes, during which he waxed eloquent about something to which Major Alberta Jones paid scant attention. Jones was on duty and was more concerned with monitoring her surroundings than with the day's lesson in righteousness and the associated salvation of her immortal soul. Director Greenaway was paying attention, but not to the Archbishop. Jones steadfastly pretended not to notice. " _If you start making moral judgements about a Protection Assignment_ ," Commander O'Brien had warned back at the Academy all those years ago, " _you might come to the conclusion that he or she isn't worth taking a bullet for_." The hardest thing, Sean O'Brien had always said, wasn't standing fast in the line of fire for someone you believed in. The hardest thing was standing fast for someone on whom you wouldn't wipe your boots. It was a matter of professionalism.

 

 

 

"That's it?" Jason asked. The newly-commissioned -- and as yet unblooded -- G-Force team were assembled in their ready room at the Center Neptune undersea facility. The room was without windows and had been decorated in contemporary style with the intention of encouraging young warriors to relax and unwind after stressful and potentially traumatic engagements. Princess, the team's only female member, described it as, 'funky.' Chief Anderson for his part described it as, 'yours,' and declined to spend any time there. The better part of one wall was devoted to an enormous video screen which interfaced with both the communications and entertainment systems. One corner was set up with musical equipment, another played host to a tiny kitchenette and the rest of the room was devoted to a mix of easy chairs and indoor sporting gear, most notably the ping-pong table that played host to the young commanding officer's friendly rivalry with his second.

 

"I'm afraid so, Jason," Mark said. "All this training... our cerebonic implants, the vehicles, the command ship..." The sentence unfinished, Mark walked over to the sink and leaned on it. He closed his eyes, trying not to let his frustration spill over into anger. He was supposed to set an example, he reminded himself. It would be unbecoming for the shiny new G-Force Commander to lose his temper in front of his team.

 

"All this, and they still don't want to use us?" Princess asked, shaking her head. She had unplugged her guitar from its amplifier. "Did the Chief say why?" Princess had a pleasant, soft voice, not low enough to be classed as contralto. She sounded older than her years but didn't look it. Large green eyes peered out of a fine-boned heart shaped face surrounded by raven dark hair. Despite the boyish numbered t-shirt and jeans she wore, Mark found it impossible to think of her as anything other than extremely feminine.

 

"The Chief said that influential elements on the Federation Council didn't want the ISO tipping our hand too soon," Mark recounted. His right hand curled into a fist.

 

"We're a multi-million-dollar investment," Tiny, the designated pilot of the command ship _Phoenix_ argued from the comfort of his chair, "why leave us sitting on the shelf?"

 

"Two attacks, right here on Earth," Jason growled, "and they don't want to send us up against Planet Spectra's weird ships. I thought we were supposed to be the silver bullet!"

 

"Politicians," Mark muttered, his tone leaving the rest of his team in no doubt about the depths of his opinion of politicians.

 

"So what does Planet Spectra have to do before the Council calls on G-Force?" Princess asked.

 

"March down... main street," Keyop stammered. The youngest member of the team, he constantly fought to overcome both his lack of stature and a severe speech impediment.

 

"Chief Anderson said he was _negotiating_ ," Mark said.

 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tiny asked.

 

"It means politics," Jason snarled. "It stinks!"

 

Princess had put her guitar back on its stand and took a seat on the sofa. "Mark, did the Chief say anything about when we're likely to get a green light?"

 

"No, Princess," Mark said. "He confirmed that G-Force wouldn't be taking any official part in the Federation Day celebrations, then when I asked him about our status, he muttered something about hell and a handbasket, but he didn't elaborate."

 

"He was mad, huh?"

 

"Like a bee in a bottle. He'd just come from an ISO Council meeting and he was ticked."

 

"Yeah?" Jason said. "Well that makes six of us."

 

 

 

"A most... impressive demonstration, Commander," Mala said. "What is it going to be?"

 

Commander Herg looked uncomfortable. He shot a pleading glance at Zoltar, who appeared to be ignoring him. "Erm..." he said. Mala raised her eyebrows, and the commander, resplendent in a silvery grey uniform with a headpiece featuring a pair of antennae and compound eyes muttered, "Dr'g'nfl', m'm."

 

"Speak up," Mala ordered.

 

"It's going to be a dragonfly, ma'am," Herg said, grimacing. "Insect, ma'am. Similar to pharbugs, only bigger."

 

"I have never seen a pharbug with a... a..."

 

"Proboscis, ma'am," Herg ground out through clenched teeth. The men had called it something else. Quite a few somethings else, actually, none of them repeatable in polite company.

 

"Ah," Mala said.

 

Herg was aware of Zoltar giving him a steady look. "The designers have assured me it will be a most effective weapon against the Earth defences once we have the ship spaceworthy, ma'am."

 

"Of course," Mala said.

 

Commander Herg remained at attention. He felt a trickle of sweat making its way down the back of his neck. If he'd known there was going to be a lady present he wouldn't have allowed the lads to demonstrate quite as many of the new weapon's prehensile properties. "We'll be conducting the final flight tests in two weeks, ma'am," he added on the basis that forewarned was, after all, forearmed. "Er... will you, um... be along to, er... watch?"

 

"I assure you, Commander," Mala said, "I wouldn't miss it for worlds."

 

 

 

The Veganian security staff were on edge. Leave and days off had been cancelled for the long weekend. The rumours and the classified intel reports (of which mere protective services officers only ever saw aggressively edited snippets) had been substantiated: almost two weeks earlier, Earth had been the subject of a second attack by a terror ship from Planet Spectra. The news reports were calling it a "giant iguana." The footage in the media seemed bizarre, like an old monster movie with a badly built mechanical model monster made of wire and plasticine, but the casualty reports were chillingly real.

 

The Veganian DPO's party was always a huge affair, with the flower of Carsarum's upper social echelons invited. Very few declined to attend, and as always, there would be those who tried to get in without an invitation. The security staff would be doing their best to deny the gate crashers access. The reports from Earth and Riga had them seeing enemy agents under every bush and monster ships with every meteorite.

 

It seemed that nowhere was safe any more. By striking at Earth, Spectra had dealt a blow to the Federation's very soul. The reassurances being issued by the ISO Council comforted many, but rang hollow for others.

 

Alberta Jones was one of those for whom the reassurances were only so much hot air. She had been Security Coordinator for the Federation’s Ambassador to Planet Riga when Spectra had attacked the capital and had seen first-hand just how terrifying the enemy's seemingly indestructible ships could be. She and her team had managed to evacuate the embassy staff but the complex had been abandoned and the Federation was yet to decide whether or not to re-establish an embassy on Riga. Jones was now the newly appointed Second in Charge of a team with overall responsibility for security, liaison and protocol within the Office of the Veganian DPO. As the most senior officer on staff with liaison and protocol accreditation, she had been assigned to ensuring that the members of visiting trade delegation from Lucavia were both safe and happy. The Lucavians had brought their own security detail and Jones had been kept busy for several days ensuring everybody got along and nobody got shot without the correct forms having been filled in. Now, with the Federation Day party in full swing, she'd just managed to defuse a potential argument between the senior Lucavian delegate and the head of the Veganian Chamber of Commerce when her earpiece hissed with the familiar sound of a comm channel opening.

 

 _"Al, you got ears on?"_ The call was from Colonel Bowman, the Officer in Charge of Security.

 

Jones excused herself and stepped away from the trade delegation to answer the call. "Affirm," she said. "Go ahead, Mitch."

 

 _"I just had a call from Lieutenant Elliott,"_ Mitchell Bowman said. _"Seems the DPO's ducked out again. I don't want to call a Code Nineteen unless I have to."_

 

Jones cast her eyes heavenward in a mute invocation. It went unanswered. "Do you want me to take the house or the grounds?" Jones sighed.

 

_"I'm checking the house. You take the grounds. Ten minute sked calls. I don't need to tell you that this one calls for a high level of discretion, Al."_

 

"As always, Colonel," Jones said. “I’ll call again in ten.” She set her comm to monitor all channels and made her way outside.

 

The security staff on patrol paid little attention to Jones as she moved quietly across the immaculately kept lawns of the Director's residence. The gardener's shed was the most obvious place to look, but it contained only tools and sacks of fertiliser. Jones locked the shed, checked her watch, made her scheduled report to Colonel Bowman and headed toward the summer house.

 

 _"Site, this is O'Malley_ ," a young male voice sounded in Jones' comm. _"I'm in sector five, the Hollow. The lights are out and I'm sure they were on the last time I passed by here."_

 

 _"Copy, Tom_ ," came the response from Major Bates, the coordinator site security. _"Anyone in the area?"_

 

"Jones, here," Jones said. "I've got your back, Tom. Stay where you are and wait for me." Jones changed direction and lengthened her stride.

 

 _"Elliott,"_ another voice responded. _"On my way."_

 

About two hundred yards from the main residence, the Hollow was a magical little grove where Mrs Greenaway grew orchids, ferns and other plants that shrank from bright sunlight. It was populated with little clay faeries, elves, frogs on toadstools, pixies and brownies that Mrs Greenaway made in her pottery studio.

 

By night, it was often illuminated with a myriad of tiny solar electric bud lights, which created an enchanting effect.

 

Now, however, it was dark.

 

"Major," Captain O'Malley whispered, and beckoned Jones over to where he was standing in the shadows provided by the buttresses of a large Moreton Bay fig tree that had been imported decades ago all the way from Earth. "There's someone down there."

 

Jones peered into the gloom and waited for her vision to adjust in the darkness.

 

Jones considered the possibilities. One of the oldest tricks in the book for infiltrators of social occasions was to pretend to be engaged in some kind of sexual activity to confuse and embarrass security patrols into leaving said infiltrators alone. Despite its status as a complete and utter cliché, security officers were taught at the Academy to watch out for it, because the oldies were still the goodies.

 

There was someone -- or some _thing_ \-- up against Mrs Greenaway's prized hundred-year-old English willow. If it was the oldest trick in the book, they were putting on a convincing version. At the very least, the participants in the activity were in a restricted area where they shouldn't have been.

 

"Look, Tom," Jones murmured, "I think perhaps you'd better let me handle this." She drew her sidearm from underneath her jacket and checked the safety.

 

"Al, we're at condition blue," O'Malley argued. "We're supposed to treat anything like this as suspicious! What if it's an infiltration? You could get yourself killed."

 

"So I'll rely on you to cover me," Jones reasoned. "Just stay here, will you? And when Elliott gets here-"

 

A powerful flashlight beam burst into life from the other side of the Hollow, illuminating the shadowy shape against the willow. "Security!" Lieutenant Elliott bellowed.

 

There was a strangled gasp, a muffled scream and Jones recognised the horrified face that turned to her in the blue-white glare of the torch: Wilson Greenaway, Director Planetary Operations, Galaxy Security, _en flagrante delicto_ with his trousers around his ankles, and Mrs Aurelia Bowles-Harrington, nearest -- and presumably dearest -- of the Archbishop, her gown in disarray, skirts hitched up under her arms, her coiffure definitely the worse for wear.

 

"Holy cow!" Tom O'Malley exclaimed, stepping out from his hiding place just in time to complete the director's humiliation.

 

"Elliott! Turn that blasted thing off!" Jones snapped. She holstered her weapon and attempted eye contact with Director Greenaway, thankful for the gloom. "So sorry to have disturbed you, sir." She activated her comm. "Site, this is Jones. All clear, the Hollow. Nothing to report. Please let Colonel Bowman know that I'll be joining him very shortly."

 

There was a good deal of rustling and fumbling as the couple disengaged and made an attempt at regaining a semblance of decency.

 

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Greenaway demanded of his security staff once he had his trousers back in order.

 

"Securing the area, sir," Jones said. "When you're ready, I'll escort you back to the house." She glared at her companions. "Not a word, either of you!"

 

 

 

 

"Observation?" Mark echoed. A mixture of incredulity and irritation sparked in his wide blue eyes. "They're kidding, right?"

 

"I'm afraid not, Commander," Chief Anderson said. "You're authorised to take the _Phoenix_ up and observe the next Spectra attack -- _assuming_ ," he couldn't resist adding, "that there is one."

 

"What?" Jason asked.

 

"You heard me," Anderson sighed. "It seems certain elements within the Federation Council aren't entirely convinced that Spectra means to invade." _It'd be nice if they were right_ , Anderson mused, _but they're in for a shock._

 

"So, what," Jason reasoned, "the last two attacks with giant terror machines were, like... I don't know, they wanted to sell us encyclopaedias or something?"

 

 _Or something_ , Anderson agreed silently. He'd directed a similar comment of his own at Admiral Sasaki, Chairman of the ISO Council, only he'd used insurance as an example. "Jason," he said aloud, forcing himself to relax, "I know it's frustrating for you, but the President's right when he says that we've invested a lot in G-Force, and one thing we don't want to do is drop you in over your heads. Easing you into this kind of conflict may well be for the best. Spectra's methods are extremely unconventional and analyses are thin on the ground. I know you want to see some action, and I'm certain that you will before too much longer. Let's all try to be patient."

 

"Right," Mark said, unconvinced.

 

"It's no good being angry," Anderson told the young man.

 

 

 

It was no good being angry, Jones told herself. Her orders were in her hand, signed and sealed by Sris Numanoglou, the Deputy Director Planetary Operations. Numanoglou had called her in to his office that morning and advised her that it was in everyone's best interests that she be transferred out. There were reputations to consider, and despite Jones' record for discretion, it was clear that Wilson Greenaway wanted her gone. As a consolation, Jones was being sent to Earth, that most sought after of destinations. Captain O'Malley was being sent home to the backwater colony of Demeter and Lieutenant Elliott had been transferred to an asteroid mining operation.

 

Jones refused to lose her temper, particularly where anyone might notice. She completed her shift, then went home in a state of quiet fury. She called her brother Richard, a professor at Carsarum University, told him she'd been transferred and couldn't go into the details, and got through rather too much of a bottle of a very drinkable local Syrah/Merlot blend while packing. Unfortunately, thanks to a natural resistance to alcohol, it didn’t even take the edge off her irritation, but did necessitate several visits to the bathroom.

 

Alberta didn't do a very good job on the packing, but Richard Jones knew better than to argue or to try and solve his little sister's problems for her, particularly after rather too much wine. He maintained the English stiff upper lip they'd both been brought up with, politely expressed his disappointment in the circumstances, and drove her to Carsarum Spaceport.

 

Four subjective days, two calendar days and a hangover later, Alberta Jones made planetfall on the Auld Rock: Mother Earth. She was booked in to transitory crew quarters at the Seahorse Base complex, just outside Center City, so she stowed her gear and reported to HQ. Stone cold sober and still grumpy, (the wine hadn't helped) she now had a case of the warps -- the 'space lag' disorientation caused by time warp travel -- into the bargain.

 

On the thirty ninth floor of the windswept edifice of the ISO Tower, Jones was interviewed by a civilian Human Resource Officer who looked at her clean service record and frowned over the abruptness of her transfer from Planet Vega after such a short time in her post.

 

"Is there anything you'd like to tell me about the reason for your sudden move back to Earth, Major?" the HRO asked.

 

"What does it say on the form, ma'am?" Jones countered.

 

"It says, 'career enrichment'," the HRO read. This was generally accepted parlance for the act of being moved sideways with no clear destination in mind. It had connotations.

 

Jones' pale brows created a furrow as she frowned. "I'm not at liberty to enlarge on Mr Numanoglu's comment, ma'am," she said primly.

 

To add insult to injury, the HRO referred Jones for a voluntary psych assessment. Jones tore the referral paper up and threw it in a trash can in the lobby.

 

Jones was put into a relief pool pending her next long term assignment, which meant there was no point in transferring bank accounts, finding a car or renting a house: she had no idea where she would be sent next. Effectively, she was in Galaxy Security's very own version of career limbo.

 

In her darker moments, she fervently hoped that Wilson Greenaway would contract a hideously embarrassing venereal disease.

 

 

 

Jason flexed his gloved fingers against the steering wheel. His lean features were composed in an expression of concentration, violet eyes narrowed slightly in anticipation. 7-Zark-7 had programmed the simulator with all the latest data provided by Rigan Intelligence and every ISO agency that had encountered anything to do with Planet Spectra's new terror machines. Jason's focus was on a rock formation, just ahead. He could hear the sound of engines getting louder.

 

Each ship was unique and animistic in design, the briefing note had said, largely invulnerable to conventional assault for reasons still unknown. Possibly vulnerable to penetration by a strike team and potentially susceptible to analysis for weaknesses. There were, Jason noted silently, an awful lot of qualifiers in the briefing note. There was no telling what the real thing would be like. All he could do was hope that the Intelligence and Counter Intelligence Divisions got it right.

 

A white jet streaked out from behind the rock formation at low level, its pilot executing a snap roll to cut the corner and scream overhead the G-2. Jason smiled and thumbed the firing controls. A large, insectoid machine lumbered out in pursuit of the jet and the targeting display turned amber as the computer calculated a lock vector. Jason didn't wait for lock and fired. To his left, there was a puff of smoke and a dull roar as Princess fired a surface-to-air missile from her own vehicle.

 

Both the G2 and G3 made direct hits and the giant insect belched smoke before collapsing on itself with a muffled _Whump!_

 

 _"Simulation terminating_ ," the computer said in its breathy feminine voice, _"in five... four... three... two... one... Terminate._

 

Jason leaned back and pushed open the canopy of the simulator capsule. In four other identical capsules on independent suspension frames around the room, his team-mates were doing likewise. "Nice aerobatic display," Jason said, smirking at Mark.

 

"Aerobatics were originally developed as combat manoeuvres, Jason," Mark said, grinning back at his second. "I thought everyone knew that."

 

"And this early in the morning, too. Think we'll have time for fancy moves once we're up against the real thing?" Jason wondered aloud as he climbed out of the capsule.

 

"I think we'll do whatever it takes to stay alive," Mark replied. He eschewed the steps and dropped the three metres to floor level, landing as lightly as a cat while Jason clattered down the metal gantry.

 

"All we can do is what we've been trained for," Princess said, making the three metre drop look as elegant as a dance movement. "They say every attack ship's different, so everything's going to be challenging."

 

"Including not bothering to wait for weapons lock in Jason's case," Mark said. "Survival tactic, Jason, or were you just showing off?"

 

"I had the shot," Jason said. "I took it."

 

"And just think," Tiny said drily from the gantry of his own simulator pod, "next time, we get to _observe_."

 

Keyop's bracelet chimed. "Gotta go," the boy announced. "Testing... cerebonic implants."

 

"Sooner you than me," Jason said. “Remember all the recalibrations we had to undergo when we were kids?”

 

“I’m not about to forget any time soon,” Mark said. “Are they recalibrating you today, Keyop?”

 

Keyop stammered for a moment, “Depends… on results.”

 

“I’ll walk you to the lab,” Princess offered. She and Keyop triggered their transmutation sequences and their uniforms seemed to dissolve into a blaze of light before restabilising in their civilian configuration.

 

Cerebonic implants required regular monitoring and recalibration. Since he was at an age where boys grow like weeds, Keyop was subject to more frequent testing than the older members of G-Force and he was booked to spend the rest of the morning connected to the equipment in the Center Neptune’s cerebonic laboratory.

 

 

 

Seahorse Base occupied over a hundred acres of reclaimed land including some prime waterfront and a fair sized chunk of San Francisco Bay besides. It was a hive of activity with undersea shuttles plying the waters from any number of submarine installations as well as traffic on the landing strips and launch pads. Rumour had it that Galaxy Security was preparing a secret weapon against Planet Spectra at a base somewhere in the Pacific. The rumours were wrong, of course: Galaxy Security had its secret weapon ready and chafing at the bit. It was testament to the security of the new secret hangar being built on site for the _Phoenix_ that no mention of it was made in scuttlebutt.

 

Some of the shuttles which had their termini at Seahorse had an undisclosed point of origin. Bioquarantine scanners were in place to prevent anyone from introducing non-indigenous biomass to any of the ecosystems where the ISO had its undersea bases, and to keep any particularly interesting compounds from the research labs from making landfall -- either intentionally or accidentally. The people getting off the shuttle were mostly technicians and scientists, coming off an undersea rotation and eager to get their feet back on _terra firma_. Security staff watched the readouts on the bio scanners, which were calibrated to detect the unique signatures of certain protein compounds.

 

Security Chief Anderson had observed Keyop’s cerebonic testing. To Keyop’s relief, Dr Halloran had decided that no cerebonic recalibration was required, so Anderson had accompanied his youngest staff member on the shuttle back to the mainland, where they would part company: Keyop to go home to the apartment he shared with Princess, whilst Anderson would return to ISO Headquarters in the city.

 

The shuttle docked at Seahorse Base and disgorged its passengers to pass through the security and bioquarantine checkpoints. Anderson's mind was already on his next three meetings, which was why it came as a surprise when the bioquarantine alarm started ringing as he walked through.

 

His first incongruous thought was that he must have spilled something on his lab coat, then he remembered that it had been years since he'd worn a lab coat to work and realised that the security officers were all looking straight at Keyop.

 

Anderson noted that there seemed to be a lot of security staff on duty before realising that the majority of them were wearing green ID badges that designated them as graduate trainees. Their training officer stepped forward to take charge.

 

Keyop looked up at the uniformed major, wide eyed. "Problem... officer?" he asked, and gave her his most engaging, goofy innocent kid grin. This usually brought out the maternal instinct in women.

 

In this case, the tactic appeared to be ineffective.

 

Anderson formed the impression that the major was made up of hard edges, as straight as the precisely ironed creases in her uniform. Ash blonde hair was pulled back from a face with even but unremarkable features set in a disapproving expression. She wasn't overtly pretty, but was possessed of an icy kind of elegance.

 

"Quite possibly," she said, in the kind of voice that would move junior officers and new recruits to salute in self defence so quickly they risked knocking their own caps off. It took Anderson a second to place the accent: English. She gave him a frankly appraising look and at the end of it, Anderson got the impression he'd come up short against whatever yardstick he was being measured against. He took a breath, squared his shoulders and assumed the 'Whoever You Are, I Outrank You' demeanour he'd been working on.

 

"What's the problem, Major?" Anderson asked.

 

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask this young man to empty his pockets, sir," she said.

 

 _No surprises, there_. Keyop had an unhealthy fascination for fauna of all kinds and didn't limit his interest to phylum Chordata. It wasn't that unusual to find the boy harbouring all manner of creatures in shoe boxes, match boxes and an assortment of peanut butter jars. The toxin alert was a little out of the ordinary, however. "Keyop," Anderson said, "what is it this time?"

 

The boy squirmed, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of small, pointed shells.

 

Anderson paled. "Those are cone shells!" he exclaimed, staring at the tiny, deadly creatures cradled in Keyop's palm.

 

"Pretty!" Keyop protested.

 

The security officer gestured to one of her students to bring a containment unit, which resembled nothing so much as an expensive lunch box with a vacuum lid. "Just put them in here, please," she suggested. "Sir, would you like me to call the base medical officer?"

 

"That won't be necessary," Anderson said.

 

"But, sir --" the major began.

 

"It won't be necessary," Anderson said again, in a tone that brooked no argument. He stepped past her and walked away, aware that she was watching him, until the second scanner array shrilled another alarm.

 

"Sir," the officer said.

 

"Keyop," Anderson said, his voice acquiring an edge, "I'm not going to tell you again."

 

Keyop pulled a sealed zip lock bag containing water and a somewhat the worse for wear sea anemone out of his other pocket. One of the recruits brought over another containment unit and a second ran the hand held scanner over the boy. "All clear, ma'am," she reported.

 

"If you're quite certain you don't require medical assistance," the major said, her tone making it quite clear that she considered Anderson a raving lunatic for declining the offer, "you're free to go." She deliberately turned away to address her students. "Right," she said. "What triggered the decon alarms?"

 

The new graduates glanced at each other before one of them raised a hand and ventured, "The broadband spectrophotometric sensors picked up a neurotoxin signature?"

 

David Anderson hustled Keyop away from the checkpoint. "How many times do I have to tell you not to collect pets off the reef?" Anderson started a familiar tirade. "Those animals belong in their own environment, not in your pockets!"

 

Keyop put on his penitent face. "Wouldn't... want other pets... if... had a... puppy," he reasoned in his halting, chirping speech.

 

"Puppies notwithstanding --" Anderson began, and the rest of his sentence was swallowed up by the base alarm system transmitting an emergency tone over all loudspeakers.

 

"ALERT," said an automated voice. "ALERT. CODE ORANGE IS IN EFFECT. CODE ORANGE IS IN EFFECT. ALL PERSONNEL, PROCEED TO YOUR ASSIGNED SHELTERS. SECTION AND AREA WARDENS, INITIATE EVACUATION PROCEDURES. EMERGENCY COORDINATORS, PROCEED TO YOUR POSITIONS. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. ALERT. ALERT..."

 

Belatedly, Anderson's palm unit beeped and he consulted the screen. The security bulletin that had arrived told of an enemy ship detected on a course for Center City via Seahorse. The ship was expected over the top in less than fifteen minutes.

 

Fifteen minutes. That was no warning at all. What the ISO needed, Anderson mused bitterly, was to get some kind of early detection system in place. He and Keyop stood motionless while people streamed around them, heading for the bunkers. Anderson drew Keyop into a corner and keyed Nerve Center on the palm unit. 7-Zark-7 answered immediately.

 

 _"Why, hello, Chief Anderson_ ," he said as though the Chief of Staff had just called in to ask him about the weather. _"My sensors indicate that an alien vessel --"_

 

"I got the bulletin," Anderson interrupted the robot. "Keyop's with me. Have the rest of G-Force rendezvous with him just outside Seahorse base!"

 

 _"Yes, sir,"_ the robot said, sounding slightly wounded.

 

Anderson brushed the thought aside as he closed the channel. "Come on," he told Keyop. "You're going to have to get out of here so you can hook up with the _Phoenix_."

 

 


	2. Prepare for war.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The proverbial balloon goes up.

 

 

 

 

"ALERT. ALERT. CODE ORANGE IS IN EFFECT. CODE ORANGE IS IN EFFECT. ALL PERSONNEL, PROCEED TO YOUR ASSIGNED SHELTERS. SECTION AND AREA WARDENS, INITIATE EVACUATION PROCEDURES. EMERGENCY COORDINATORS, PROCEED TO YOUR POSITIONS. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. ALERT. ALERT..."

 

Due the nature of Seahorse Base it was expected that not everyone would know their way around. The grey vinyl flooring was bordered with coloured stripes leading to important locations such as the medical centre, the transit centre, the residential complex and the emergency shelters. A lot of people were currently following the orange stripes on the floor to take them to the shelters. Among them were Alberta Jones and her small squad of trainees.

 

Career limbo, a temporary assignment teaching graduate officers and now some kind of large scale evacuation exercise. It was one of those moments where Jones wished a very specific kind of ill toward her former protection assignment. The corridors were crowded and were getting busier as smaller corridors fed into the arterial ones and the crowd moved like migrating wildebeest on some kind of sterile, climate controlled Serengeti.

 

It wasn't so much the movement therefore, but its direction that caught Jones' eye.

 

It was the boy from the shuttle, the one with the toxic pets and the dishy parent, scampering in the wrong direction down an intersecting hallway. Jones tapped one of her trainees on the shoulder. "You're in charge until I get back, Lieutenant," she said. She sidestepped, shoved and ducked her way out of the flow of people and into the mostly-empty corridor. "Hey!" she called. The boy stopped, glanced over his shoulder, then sprang away at speed, heading further away from her. "Oh, bother," Jones sighed and ran after him.

 

This really wasn't turning out to be a particularly good day.

 

Jones lost sight of the boy at another intersection of corridors. She stopped and listened. The sound of light, rapid footfalls came from her right. She followed it, slowing so that she could take out her palm unit and call the control centre to report the stray civilian. As she turned a corner, she could see the slight figure moving ahead of her at an easy jog. She tucked the palm unit back into its belt pouch and broke into a run. The boy spun at the sound, saw her and dashed away. Jones was sprinting now, but the boy was gaining ground. This shouldn't have been possible, Jones reasoned. She'd been training as hard as ever since her transfer, only having taken a break on the starship from Vega. A fit security officer should have been able to run down a skinny little boy without even breaking a sweat, but the child was outrunning her like a gazelle.

 

The boy darted down another corridor and Jones followed. There was an emergency exit ahead. With a Code Orange in effect, the base was at Condition Two Lock Down and even emergency exits required a code to open the doors at Condition Two. She'd have him now, and regardless of what his father's rank turned out to be, she was going to give the rotten little menace a stern talking-to.

 

The boy slapped his wrist against the security panel, and incredibly, the locking indicator lights turned from orange to green. He wrested the heavy door open with apparent ease and slipped through. Jones flung herself against the door as the latches engaged again. Biting back a curse, she stabbed at the access panel, entering a security egress code. The indicators turned green and Jones pushed the door open. Bright sunlight assailed her eyes and she squinted to see the boy racing across one of the staff car parks.

 

Jones lost more ground dodging between cars as she chased after her quarry. The boy seemed as slippery as an eel. Her last glimpse before she lost him came as he ducked behind a parked utility, seemingly chattering into his wristwatch.

 

A shadow fell across the base and Jones' gaze was drawn irresistibly upward. Automatically, she reached for her sidearm then stopped herself, realising what a futile gesture it was.

 

A monster loomed overhead, hovering at about a hundred feet and descending as it moved forward: It looked like some kind of dragonfly, with enormous outstretched wings and a long, narrow, obscenely flexible empennage. Jones couldn't recall real dragonflies behaving in quite the same manner. As Jones watched in abject horror, the thing dropped lower and lower. She cast about frantically, looking for the boy she'd been chasing, but couldn't see him. She jogged away, looking under cars, scanning the grounds for any sign of him.

 

At a strange hissing, whirring sound behind her, Jones glanced fearfully over her shoulder to see what looked like a tentacle protruding from the dragonfly's mouth. She started running in earnest, heart pounding against her ribs. Where the devil was the boy?

 

Someone small, fast and stripy tackled her from the left, bowling her over with enough momentum to carry her clear across about eight feet of carpark to fetch up -- painfully -- against a parked Range Rover as the dragonfly's metal tongue smashed into the ground where she'd been.

 

Bits of tarmac, rocks, sand and dust filled the air, stinging when they hit. Winded, Jones held on to her rescuer's small and bony form, trying to protect him from the flying debris. She could feel a dull pain in her right side where she'd hit the side step of the Range Rover, suggestive of a nasty bruise, but she was fairly certain nothing was broken.

 

When the worst of it was over, the boy twittered something unintelligible, scowling as though she'd been the one to put them both at risk. "Dangerous!" he reproved.

 

"You don't say?" Jones gasped, grabbing his wrist. "Come on, we've got to get back to the shelters!"

 

"No!" the boy pulled free of her grip with astounding strength for someone his size. "You go!"

 

"Not without you, young man!" Jones told him sternly, then the child took hold of her arm and impossibly, hauled her bodily to her feet. All conversation was suspended as they ran for their lives from another blow from the dragonfly's weird appendage.

 

They dodged and sprinted to the dubious cover of a small building signposted, 'Danger: Electrical Plant. Do not enter!'

 

The boy made another odd chirping sound. "You don't... understand!" He screwed his face up in dismay.

 

Jones saw a figure race toward them from behind a row of cars: the boy's father. He sprinted across the tarmac and skidded to a stop against the wall that protected them.

 

"What do you think you're _doing_?" Jones demanded, not caring whether the newcomer outranked her or not.

 

Instead of answering, the suited man glanced upward. "Get down!" he snapped, and dropped to the asphalt. Jones did likewise as the scream of engines heralded the arrival of a squadron of remote controlled fighter jets. The jets opened fire, strafing the alien ship. Bullets tore into parked cars and hot shell casings bounced and tinkled over the paving.

 

"Why do all the cute ones have to be idiots?" Jones muttered under her breath. She glanced around, searching for a safe escape route. "All right," she raised her voice as the jets arced away for another attack run, "if I can open the door to this plant room, we might be able to access a service tunnel and possibly even survive until teatime, but we'll have to move fast. Sir, I have no idea who you are, but I'd appreciate it if you could keep the young gentleman under control." She pulled her palm unit from her pocket and held it against the covered lock panel of the plant room before entering a sequence of codes.

 

Above, the alien ship was on an intercept course with the remote controlled fighter jets. Its proboscis lashed out like a whip and tore through one of the planes, which exploded in a ball of flame and debris.

 

Jones looked up into a sky about to rain death upon her. "Oh, _bugger_ ," she said. Even as she spoke, Jones was aware that, "Oh, bugger," were probably going to be her last words, but since nobody was listening, it probably didn't really matter. The boy leaped up, batted Jones' hand and palm unit aside from the control panel and pressed his wrist against the lock. The lights turned green and the panel slid open. The boy shoved the adults in ahead of him, chirping and stuttering musically. "Inside!" he managed to say.

 

The tiny building rattled as burning metal hit the ground around them. A heavy thud made the roof shake and warp as something relatively small but also relatively burning bounced off it.

 

"Flashlight!" the suited man barked, and Jones, who was in the process of extracting her penlight from her jacket pocket, turned to him in irritation.

 

"Flashlight, _please_!" she snapped, and switched on the small, bright light.

 

The man stared at her while the boy gaped. "I stand corrected," the man said, recovering himself. He crouched beside the sealed cover to the service pit and keyed an override code. "After you," he said as he pulled the hatch open.

 

Jones descended the ladder with the flashlight between her teeth and fumbled for a light switch. It was close to the bottom of the ladder where she expected to find it, and a lonely fluorescent tube struggled and flickered into life. The boy slid down the ladder and the man followed at a more sensible pace, pausing to close the overhead hatch after himself. Jones hunted for an emergency access hatch and tried not to think about the way the boy had opened the door to the plant building only moments earlier. The hatch was behind a roll of disused fibre optic cable. Jones kicked it aside and dodged the cockroaches which scuttled out from underneath it. "And there's another reason I never wanted to become an engineer," she grumbled quietly. She entered her access code on the keypad and worked the manual hatch release, which clunked and groaned in protest as she did so.

 

The tunnel beyond the service hatch was illuminated with dim emergency lighting which managed to turn pitch blackness into not-quite pitch blackness.

 

The pit shook and the overhead hatch buckled as something heavy fell on it. A large crack began to open in the ceiling.

 

"I think 'away' would be a good direction to consider at this point," Jones said, and shone her flashlight into the murky depths of the access tunnel. She ventured inside and beckoned for the others to join her. Jones shut the hatch behind them. If the service pit caved in, it could send a cloud of choking dust down the access tunnel and Jones wanted something solid between her and anything that might be described as 'choking.' The man had managed to activate the assistive light on his palm unit, which did little to penetrate the gloom and was waiting impatiently with the boy for Jones to return with her brighter, more focussed light source. Jones took the lead and walked further into the tunnel, thoughts racing in frantic circles.

 

The boy... The boy with his preternatural strength and that wristband that over-rode access codes! Best not to think about that. It had 'classified' written all over it in large red letters. The man, though... Jones' mind struggled to find a category into which he fitted.

 

He definitely wasn't a Uniform. Jones knew Uniforms. She'd been one since she'd signed up for Federal Service with Galaxy Security out of high school. When her twelve months were up, she'd remained in the Reserves through university, then gone to the Academy and graduated with bright gold bars on her collar. No, not a Uniform. He wasn't a Civvy, either. A civilian wouldn't move the way he moved or have dealt with the situation the way he did. That left Plain Clothes, Lab Coat, or Suit.

 

He moved like a Plain Clothes, except that they usually started out as Uniforms, and tended to dress more snappily once given wardrobe choices. There were the administrative staff, however, who wore civilian clothing to work. He could be some kind of senior accountant. Still, she mused, it was as though he knew exactly where he was in relation to his surroundings, even in the darkness of the tunnel, and that suggested more training and experience than the average bean-counter or pen-pusher.

 

Jones' first impression back at the decontamination station -- it felt like a lifetime ago, now -- had been that he looked like a Lab Coat. He dressed the part, with his not-quite matching waistcoat and last year's tie, but then there was the way he spoke with the ring and snap of command in his voice. He had the Look, too, the one that summed the recipient up in one sweep, right down to service number and shoe size. The Look and the Voice were pure Suit.

 

An electronic chirp sounded, and the boy raised his arm to speak into his wristband. "G-4," he said.

 

 _"Keyop, where are you?"_ a soft female voice asked. _"We're approaching Seahorse Base but your signal's faint. Are you okay?"_

 

The boy stuttered. "In hole," he warbled, "in the ground!"

 

"We need to find the fastest way back to the surface," the Suit/Lab Coat declared, taking the lead and heading down the access tunnel with a determined stride.

 

Jones scrambled to catch up and gave him a horrified look. "Are you harbouring some sort of ambition to have the snot beaten out of you by a giant alien... _thingy_?" she snapped, the compunction to sarcasm finally getting the better of her (and if nothing else, his response would tell her once and for all where he belonged on the Galaxy Security Organisational Chart.) "I mean, I'm no psychologist, but I'm fairly certain you ought to be able to get pills for it or something."

 

"Pills..." the man echoed, raising an eyebrow.

 

"Probably the ones that are only allowed to be dispensed in really small quantities," Jones added nastily.

 

"Major... Jones," the man said, making a very Suit-like point of reading Jones' name tag, "You are now part of a highly classified operation. I require compliance with my orders. I do _not_ require speculation on my mental state - regardless of how crazy I may seem right now," he added.

 

Jones had been a Galaxy Security officer long enough to tell when someone was metaphorically peeing on a tree, and she could also tell when the mark was well up the trunk. _Suit. Definitely._ "As you wish, sir," she said.

 

"Good," the Suit acknowledged. "Now, let's find a way out of here."

 

 

 

"Do you think Keyop's okay?" Princess asked, her voice wavering.

 

"Zark's keeping an eye on him," Tiny said. "And the little guy can hold his own. You'll see."

 

"In the meantime," Jason said, glowering at the main view screen, "that thing's still a threat. It's made mince meat out of the car park!"

 

Mark made an effort to stop grinding his teeth. "We're observing," he said, reiterating his instructions. "We don't engage unless it's to save lives."

 

"You think stopping it cold might save a few?" Jason muttered.

 

Mark heard him, but didn't reply. Instead he opened a tele-comm channel. "Zark," he said, "what's the word on personnel at Seahorse Base? Any casualty reports in, yet?"

 

 _"Only minor injuries reported so far, Commander,"_ the robot replied. _"However, there's some structural damage to one of the shelters on level two. If the shelter has to be evacuated, we could see an increase in casualty numbers."_

 

"And the city?" Mark asked. "Have they managed to evacuate the civilians?"

 

_"Emergency Services report that approximately sixty percent of the civilian population have either been evacuated or have taken shelter in the civil defence facilities."_

 

"Thanks, Zark. Keep us posted, Okay? G-Force out."

 

"Thinking of making our observation a little more interactive?" Jason asked.

 

"You read my mind, Jason," Mark said. "All the same, we'll wait a little longer to let the civilians get out of the hot zone and I want Keyop on board if we decide to go in."

 

 

 

Anderson wiped grimy hands on his jacket. Service tunnels were never meant to be spotlessly clean, and that included the hand rails on the ladders. The thick layer of dirt seemed to be composed of dust, grease and fossilised cobwebs with a sprinkling of dead bugs thrown in for good measure. It was uncomfortably -- Anderson's mind cast around for a descriptive -- _organic_.

 

The sounds of battle had been getting louder, and now the percussion and roar of surface to air missiles being fired were clearly audible. Ahead of him, Major Jones had found a door and was unlocking it. She pushed it outward by a few inches and a narrow band of daylight streamed in to the tunnel along with the stench of rocket exhaust.

 

Anderson peered outside and blinked.

 

The car park was going to be the subject of a lot of declined insurance claims (Act of War being a standard exclusion) and part of the hardstand was now occupied by three mobile batteries, all firing at the dragonfly ship, which remained in a hover at about a hundred and fifty feet above Seahorse Base.

 

The rockets seemed to be having little effect on the enemy, from what Anderson could make out through the smoke.

 

The dragonfly wasn't paying much attention to either the missiles or the base, however, as it was being kept fully occupied by a large blue and red aircraft which circled around it, forcing it to move in a tight circle in its attempts to obtain a firing solution.

 

"Looks like they're waiting for you," Anderson told Keyop.

 

Keyop activated his wrist comm. "G-Force... come in," he said.

 

 _"Where are you?"_ Mark asked

 

"On ground," Keyop reported. "Need... pickup."

 

There was a brief silence, presumably while the rest of G-Force decided what they were going to do.

 

 _"Princess is on her way,"_ Mark said. _"Head for the south gate."_

 

"Aye-aye!" Keyop chirped. He struck a pose, arced his hand over his head and spoke a single word: _"Transmute!"_

 

His gangly form seemed to dissolve in iridescent rainbow light before solidifying again, resplendent in his yellow and red G-Force battle uniform.

 

The _Phoenix_ banked steeply and withdrew, heading out over the bay.

 

The dragonfly ship stopped turning and hung motionless over Seahorse Base for a moment.

 

Keyop pushed the emergency exit door open and grinned back at the adults. "See ya!" he said, and ran.

 

Out of sight of the Base, the _Phoenix_ lost altitude and went in to a stationary hover over a freeway interchange.

 

Mark opened a channel on his comm unit. "Ready, Princess?"

 

 _"Say the word, Commander,"_ Princess replied.

 

"Go pick him up," Mark said.

 

The _Phoenix_ descended over the deserted interchange and her port wing pod opened. The internal ramp lowered Princess and her G-3 Galacticycle into open air some six feet above the road surface. Princess released the clamps holding her Galacticycle in place, revved the engine, and activated the catapult that pushed her vehicle off the ramp, making the drop look easy.

 

The cycle landed with a thump on the road and Princess turned it toward Seahorse Base.

 

 

 

Keyop ran. He ducked and dodged between buildings and behind vehicles, doing his best to stay out of the dragonfly's line of sight. From the sounds of it, the dragonfly was being kept busy.

 

He stopped in the lea of the main entrance to the shuttle terminal and risked a glance around the corner. The dragonfly was still there, still intact, and three plumes of thick, oily smoke suggested that the mobile rocket batteries were probably neither.

 

"Not... good," he decided. He turned and ran again.

 

 

 

As Keyop dashed across the ruin of the carpark for his rendezvous with the rest of G-Force, Anderson turned to his incidental companion. "Major Jones," he said, "what you've witnessed today is classified at the highest possible level. You never saw the boy."

 

"Yes, sir," Jones answered.

 

"Dismissed," Anderson growled. "Get to the shelter."

 

"Sir." Jones started to obey, then caught herself. "Sir?"

 

"What?" Anderson snapped.

 

"What about you, sir?"

 

Anderson regarded Jones with an incredulous glower. "What _about_ me?"

 

Jones swallowed, seemingly trying not to wilt under the glare of Anderson's indignation. "Sir, as an officer, I have an obligation to protect all personnel, and... and you in turn have an obligation to take all reasonable measures to preserve your own life and limb as an asset of the agency."

 

Anderson regarded the security officer with some bemusement, then he smiled, one corner of his mouth twitching upward, a lion indulging the mouse who dared to challenge him. "I do, do I?"

 

"According to the Officers' Handbook, sir, yes, you do," Jones said. She met his gaze, and to Anderson's surprise, didn't blink or look away. "They tell me the editor's decision is final."

 

Anderson stifled a chuckle. "So I've heard," he said. "Lead the way, Major." His palm unit sounded with an emergency tone, and he answered it. "Yes, Zark, what is it?"

 

_"My sensors indicate that Shelter H-Two-North is in serious danger of structural failure," 7-Zark-7 recounted. "The Base Commander gave the order to evacuate, but the blast doors have taken some damage and the locking mechanism has malfunctioned. The doors won't open from the inside, but if someone were to work the manual release from the outside --"_

 

"Understood," Anderson said. "Who's closest?"

 

_"You are, sir."_

 

"I see," Anderson said.

 

 

 

The G-3 Galacticycle came to a halt just outside Gate 14, which was colloquially known as the south gate. A small figure darted out from the shadow of the sentry post and cleared the fence in an impossible leap. Keyop climbed up onto the pillion seat and wrapped his arms around Princess' waist.

 

"Glad to see you made it out in one piece," Princess said, and turned the Galacticycle back toward the highway. As the machine picked up speed, both communicators chirped.

 

 _"G-Force, this is Anderson."_ The Security Chief's voice sounded small through the bracelet speakers. _"You are authorised to engage the enemy. I repeat, you are authorised to engage."_

 

"Pick us up, Tiny!" Princess said, "we're coming in fast!"

 

 

 

Jones stopped and turned, looking for the Suit. He'd told her to run, told her where and why she had to run, then he'd stayed behind for reasons he'd chosen not to share. Well, maybe it was for the best, she decided. She was running _in_ to danger, after all, and Suits belonged out of the way when it came to that sort of thing. She turned back toward the main body of the base and ran again.

 

Vibrations became shudders, and Jones realised she was heading into an area where the surface was being bombarded. There were almost a hundred and fifty people in Shelter H2-North and if she didn't get the door open, they'd die when the roof caved in. It was a good thing, she mused as she turned a corner, that she was one of those people who exercised by running a lot. It wasn't the first time in her career that she'd needed to run. She hoped the base structure would hold up for long enough that it wouldn't turn out to be the last.

 

 

 

"It's moving pretty fast," Princess said. "Think we can catch it, Tiny?"

 

"We could," Tiny said, glancing at Mark, "but are we supposed to?"

 

Keyop made a chirping, stuttering sound as he tried to find words. "Changing... course!" he reported.

 

"Looks like it's turning toward the city," Princess said.

 

"That's not good," Jason surmised.

 

"Anderson authorised us to engage," Mark reminded his team. "Stay on its tail."

 

 

 

"Contact," the tactical officer reported. "Unknown vessel, unknown configuration. Presumed hostile."

 

Herg uttered a soft snort of contempt. "More of their pathetic remote controlled defences?"

 

"It's that same ship from before, sir," the tactical officer said. "It didn't engage last time, but it's coming in fast now."

 

Herg didn't have time to respond as a series of explosions knocked him off his feet. "Damage report!" he gasped from the floor. He struggled to his feet.

 

"Minor damage fore and aft along the port side, sir," the tactical officer said.

 

"Why was there no warning that they had missile lock?" Herg demanded.

 

"I don't know sir. It... it looks like they didn't. They just fired."

 

"They targeted us _manually_?" Herg stared at the screen, seeing for the second time the blue and red aircraft circling their position. It was easily twice the size of the dragonfly, and while it might not have engaged the first time he'd seen it, whoever was flying it seemed to have changed their mind now. "Get me a firing solution!"

 

 

 

"Nice shooting, Jason," Mark said.

 

"I think we got their attention," Tiny said, as the dragonfly left off its attack on Seahorse Base and turned toward the _Phoenix_.

 

"Evasive action," Mark ordered.

 

 

 

Alberta Jones wrestled with the heavy steel locking wheel. She'd wrenched, hauled and even kicked at it to try and get it loose, while it resisted her every attempt to move it. Overriding the faulty electronic release hadn't been a problem, but the actual physical opening of the door was proving to be more of an obstacle. She clenched her teeth and tried again to twist the wheel.

 

The door moved by an inch.

 

"It's moving!" a man's voice called from inside the shelter.

 

"Can you push from your side?" Jones gasped back to him.

 

"We're trying!" came the reply.

 

"It's jammed," said another voice, and Jones spun around to see the newly-arrived Suit standing behind her.

 

"Is that your professional opinion?" she asked, somewhat more sharply than she'd intended.

 

"As a matter of fact, it is," he said. He was studying the door itself. "See that metal bar?" He pointed at something just above the top of the door. "It's slipped off the tracks. You'll never get that door open using the release wheel. Stand back." The Suit raised his voice. "Everybody back from the door!"

 

"What are you going to do?" Jones asked. "And what are you doing here, anyway? Why aren't you taking cover in Section A?"

 

"Because you need me here," the Suit said, taking off his wristwatch. He removed the back plate.

 

"That's going to turn out to be some sort of petard, isn't it?" Jones sighed.

 

"A small one. Go to the head of the class, Major. Borrow your palm unit?"

 

Jones handed the device over without a word. The Suit slid the back cover off, pulled something off the back of the speaker, attached it to the watch, and gave the pillaged palm unit back to its nominal owner. He took aim, and threw.

 

"Duck," he said, and did so.

 

The wristwatch, attached to the magnet from Jones' palm unit, stuck to the damaged rod. Jones stared at it in disbelief.

 

"You did hear me say, 'duck,' didn't you, Major?" the Suit reminded her, and she obeyed as the watch exploded.

 

Dust and debris swirled and clattered around them.

 

"Let's get that door open," the Suit declared.

 

For a brief, wistful moment, Jones wondered if she could get away with hitting him.

 

 

 

Tiny angled the _Phoenix_ so that she presented the smallest possible target and hit the thrusters. The ship accelerated. A flashing amber icon appeared on the main display and an alarm sounded. "They're trying for missile lock," Tiny said. "Hang on. I'm gonna hit the brakes."

 

"The _brakes_?" Jason echoed, then grabbed at his console as inertia threw him forward. The question he'd been about to utter, "Brakes, when they're trying to lock on to us?" came out as, "Barghfl?" as the floor seemed to reach for him and gravity suddenly wanted to be his best friend ever.

 

“Of course,” Tiny explained nonchalantly, braced against the pilot’s console, “when I say _brakes_ I actually mean a combination of slats, slots, flaps and variable thrust application – “ The _Phoenix_ 's vertical thrusters roared white hot as the command ship climbed. “But the effect is similar.”

 

“Thanks for the aerodynamics lecture,” Jason grumbled.

 

In the co-pilot's seat, Mark watched the screens while Tiny balanced the gauges on the edge of the red. "Lock," Mark said as the warning icon turned red and the alarm shrilled.

 

"On it," Tiny said. "Hold tight, everyone."

 

"Holy -!" Jason gasped as the nose came up and the left wing dropped. "Stalled turn with missile lock? Seriously?"

 

"You wanna drive?" Tiny snarled. "'Cause if you don't then shut the -"

 

"We get it!" Princess said, forestalling Tiny's curse. "Jason, hang on and let the man fly."

 

"Or better yet," Mark said, "you could be getting me a countermeasure."

 

"How about a _seat belt_?" Jason muttered, even as he complied. Two missiles streaked past the main viewscreen and Jason fired two smaller rockets.

 

The explosion filled the viewscreen with light and the concussion shook the ship. Tiny brought the thrusters up and swung the _Phoenix_ around in a tight turn. "Y'know I always figured this aerobatic stuff was for you fighter types," he said with a quick flash of a grin.

 

"And if we had time to fly straight and level for long enough to launch the G1," Mark said, "I'd be out there. Next time, maybe." The _Phoenix_ 's nose dropped and the viewscreen filled with Dragonfly. Mark turned in his seat. "Okay, Jason, one big target, on a plate for the next second or so. Show 'em what you got."

 

"My pleasure," Jason said.

 

"Bird missiles are good for go," Princess reported. "Circuit closed, all in the green."

 

A buzzer sounded and Jason smiled the smile of a predator. "Locked," he said, and depressed the firing control.

 

A large missile dropped from the Phoenix's belly hatch and roared away as the burners fired.

 

 

 

"They have lock!" the tactical officer said, his voice high with worry.

 

"Evasive action!" Herg snapped. "Countermeasures! Now!"

 

The helmsman brought the Dragonfly around in a barely-controlled flat spin while countermeasures zipped away. The bird missile missed by a few metres and impacted in the ground in a dark orange ball of flame.

 

"That was too close," Herg said. "Helm bring us-"

 

"Lock!" the tactical officer said again.

 

"Countermeasures!" Herg cried.

 

The second bird missile hit the Dragonfly ship in the bow and rocked it, halting its forward momentum and blasting its main weapons array to shrapnel. Herg grunted as he was slammed against a console, the air knocked out of his lungs. "Report!" he managed to gasp.

 

The ship rocked again as smaller rockets struck home and alarms shrieked.

 

"Report!" Herg roared, and winced as a broken rib made itself known.

 

"We've taken damage, sir," the tactical officer said. "The helmsman's injured. I'm trying to bring us back under control -"

 

 _"Enemy vessel, this is the Federation ship_ Phoenix _. You are ordered to stand down and surrender. Respond or be destroyed."_

 

Herg got to his feet and surveyed the damaged bridge. Several of his officers were lying on the floor unconscious or worse. There was smoke and the smell of burning coming in through the ventilation system and every console was showing a mix of red or orange. Here and there a lonely green light flickered, but it was an unhappy picture that presented itself. He sagged against the console which had so recently injured him and glared up at the comm screens. About half of them were not functioning but the remainder showed an image of a young man wearing a birdlike helmet. His blue visor had the vicious curve of a predatory bird and the eyes behind it were hard with anger. _"I repeat, enemy vessel -"_

 

"We surrender," Herg said. "State your terms."

 

 

 

David Anderson stood with his back to the setting sun. It was an old Conway trick - and an old Marshall Hawking trick, for that matter: stand in front of a light source so that anyone engaging with you has to squint and make it difficult for them to read your expression. Showmanship, really. Smoke and mirrors. The Spectran Commander - he'd given his name as Herg, Warrior of the Great Eruk Desert or some such overdramatic claptrap - had surrendered unconditionally and was cooperating. Anderson stood with his hands behind his back, watching as the crew of the Dragonfly were disarmed and led away by uniformed Galaxy Security personnel. He caught a glimpse of the blonde officer - Jones - herding a group of graduate trainees on the periphery of things, but was more concerned with the Spectrans. His next concern, Anderson mused, would be what he was going to tell the President. He let his breath out in a very small huff of exasperation. People, mostly politicians who were only technically human in Anderson's book, were going to be asking questions, and they'd be getting some very wordy answers which could all be distilled down into one very short sentence: "I told you so." Anderson would have liked to make it, "I told you so, you stupid tight-fisted bastards," but that would probably go down like the proverbial lead balloon. As it was, "I told you so," was _not_ going to be Number One With a Bullet on the political popularity charts even without an epithet, pejorative or otherwise. Yes, it was going to be, "I told you so," but put in such a way that the President could be seen to be blameless. Someone might have to very well fall on their sword over this... this... _balls up_ , and David Anderson was going to make it damned clear that it wasn't going to be him.

 

 

 

Mark wasn't exactly certain what he'd expected after Tiny landed the _Phoenix_ at Seahorse Base.

 

He was fairly certain that this wasn't it.

 

The G-Force team sat in silence as the armoured limousine drew slowly up to the steps of the Presidential Palace. With five adults and Keyop, there wasn't a lot of elbow room. The initial analyses of the attack had come in at about the same time as G-Force finished securing the _Phoenix_ in her hangar at Seahorse Base. Anderson had conducted a very cursory debrief on the way in the short time allowed and exhorted them to, "Just tell the truth and let the facts speak for themselves." He'd finished by promising to handle the politicians. Mark hadn't missed the quick warning glance at Jason, and neither had Jason. "What?" the gunner had demanded, to which Anderson had replied, "Even if you shoot them, they'll just keep breeding, so save us all the trouble and keep it holstered. With the safety _on_."

 

The car stopped and Lieutenant Maxwell got out to open the door. When everyone was out, Maxwell closed the door and signalled to Corporal Mendelawitz to drive on. The bodyguard then escorted G-Force and their Chief of Staff to their first ever Presidential debriefing.

 

Inside the Palace, every other person seemed to be wearing the dark blue of Galaxy Security. Anderson remarked on this to Field Marshall Al-Farouk of the Army who fell into step with him on the way to the Presidential office. Yusef Al-Farouk had the least enviable job: that of explaining why the civilian casualty list was so extensive. The Army's Chief of Staff raised an eyebrow. "My guard's been tripled," he said. "I expected to see you with more security, David."

 

"I can understand your security being upgraded, Joe," Anderson said, "but I'm not exactly a prime target."

 

Air Marshall Lynch was waiting - presumably on the basis that there was safety in numbers. "I've had increased security for the past month!" he said. "Is G-Sec's budget so tight you can't afford a security detail?"

 

"I'm getting to it," Anderson said, frowning.

 

"If your new team keeps getting results like today's," Lynch said, "you'll be a prime target soon enough."

 

 

 

Jason had seen President Kane on the 3V of course. He'd seen his Commander-in-Chief on the news, in the papers, in public service announcements, 'State of the Galaxy' addresses and political advertisements.

 

He'd never shaken the man's hand before.

 

Alexander Kane was a big man - he wasn't exactly fat, although there was a fair bit of middle-aged spread present. The man seemed to be built on a different scale to lesser mortals. Kane's shoulders were broad enough that Jason was fairly certain he and Mark could fit side-by-side in one of Kane's jackets. The President's voice boomed and the handshake... Jason had braced himself, ready to have his hand crushed, but the handshake was merely direct and firm.

 

This made Jason suspicious: any politician with an honest handshake bore watching. Kane must have practised that handshake for months, if not years. Jason's distrust must have shown on his face because Princess nudged him with one foot as she took up position beside him. "Quit scowling," she murmured.

 

Jason deliberately arranged his features in as neutral an expression as he could. Standing at ease, he centred his weight and relaxed as much as he was able. At the long conference table, the brass provided the President with wordy accounts garnished with lashings of hindsight. The phrase, "Opportunities for improvement," kept coming up. It was all Jason could do to keep from snorting his derision.

 

When it was Anderson's turn to speak, the Security Chief took a deep breath. "I have some recordings here from the G-Force command ship _Phoenix_ ," he said. "I've also been advised that our technical staff have managed to extract information from the flight recording equipment on the Spectran ship. If you'll turn your attention to the screens in front of you?"

 

Zark had spliced together footage from the _Phoenix_ and the Dragonfly ship. G-Force didn't have the luxury of personal 3V screens and were obliged to watch their mission video on the wall screens. Jason tried not to cringe when he heard his own voice being played back complaining about the lack of seat belts. Jason's eyes widened as he watched the external footage of the _Phoenix_ performing the kinds of manoeuvres he normally expected to see carried out by much smaller craft. No wonder they'd been tossed around in the cabin. "We have one heck of a bus driver, there," he murmured as quietly as he could.

 

"You got that right," Mark muttered back.

 

The video presentation ended with the surrender of the Dragonfly ship and the lights came back up. There were generalised congratulations from the Chiefs of Staff who seemed eager to find something positive to talk about.

 

"It seems our new strike team performed admirably," President Kane declared. "Not bad for a first time out. Not bad at all!"

 

"With respect, Mister President, this shouldn't have been their first time out," Anderson said. "We held back when we should have sent them in." Anderson gestured at the frozen footage of the downed enemy ship. "Had we sent this message to Spectra the first time they made an incursion, they might not have been so bold this time. Ladies and gentlemen, we screwed up," Anderson said. "We were caught flat-footed. We had insufficient warning. We didn't evacuate fast enough or thoroughly enough. There were civilian casualties and that's unacceptable. We can talk about evaluating our contingency plans and focussing on areas for improvement but what it comes down to is that Spectra's playing hard-ball and we thought it was a friendly game of tennis. From now on, we need to allocate resources with two very clear aims in mind: firstly we keep our population safe, second we repel Spectra's attacks. The two go hand in hand. I'd like to move that we reconsider the plans Chief Conway submitted back in August of last year. At the time, the recommendations were considered too extreme and militaristic. Things have changed. Walter Conway saw this coming. I wish he'd been wrong. We need to act."

 

"But you said yourself," Admiral Sasaki objected, "we've sent Spectra a message. Maybe they'll leave us alone, now."

 

"Did you _read_ the G-Sec analysis from last year, Ryuu?" Anderson demanded. "They're gearing up for _invasion_. You've seen what's happening on Riga. Your own forces took heavy casualties -"

 

"I think we get the point," Aida Nagarajan, head of the Space Patrol, said. "We need to go on to a war footing. We're well behind Spectra in this regard and we can't afford to be."

 

"They haven't declared war," Toby Lynch pointed out. "While I get that they don't make declarations of war in their culture, will we get away with it, politically speaking?"

 

"I'll make sure we do," Alexander Kane said. "The Spectran culture deems the act of war to be the declaration in and of itself. I'll talk the Council around."

 

"So we're at war," Admiral Nagarajan said softly. "Conway was right." She turned dark eyes on the G‑Force team. "I wish you good luck, Commander. You're going to be very busy from now on."

 

 

 

As the day wore on, Alberta Jones and her graduate officers were issued with weapons (as well as a new palm unit to replace the one Anderson had dismembered) then given orders to join other squads being sent to the city to patrol and guard against looters while clean up and rescue squads worked to make sense and find hope amidst the chaos. Jones' mind had gone quietly numb and she was operating on mental automatic pilot, doing her job on the strength of training and ingrained habit.

 

As Jones was not normally an emotive individual, no-one really noticed a lot of difference.

 

As sunset approached, Jones' squad secured what they hoped was one of the last areas and watched as workmen scrambled to erect lights around a damaged building to allow rescuers to go on working into the night. A missile had hit in part of the business district, leaving the street littered with glass, rubble and plastic. Ambulances had evacuated the accessible victims, and coloured light from waiting emergency vehicles danced over the debris. The engineering crew estimated there were three survivors still trapped, and worked carefully to shore up the damaged structure to allow the paramedics in.

 

A childish voice warbled a greeting. "Hi!"

 

Jones turned to see the boy from the shuttle terminal, looking as cheerfully messy as the first time she'd seen him. Four teens were also in the area, seemingly without authorisation. They were all wearing the same sort of numbered shirts as the child. Jones saw one of her group heading toward them and waved him away.

 

"Sir," she managed to say to the boy.

 

He giggled and puffed out his tiny chest. "Socked it..." he stammered, "to 'em!"

 

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know what you mean," Jones said quietly. The boy's face fell.

 

"But..." he started to say.

 

"Keyop," one of the youngsters, a pretty girl with long dark hair, joined the boy and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Come on. There's nothing for us here. Let's go."

 

"We should all be taking a good long look," a rangy, red headed youth insisted in a light, slightly nasal tenor. "One of our bird missiles did this."

 

"Maybe we should try to help," the girl said.

 

Jones turned away, not wanting to hear any more. Whoever these people were, they operated at a clearance level far beyond hers and their business wasn't for the likes of security staff. She herded her charges away from the newcomers.

 

"Is it true, ma'am?" one of the female graduates asked, wide-eyed. "This was friendly fire?"

 

Jones fixed the young officer with an icy look. "Leave it for the investigators," she ordered. "And stay away from the visitors," she added, nodding toward the group in their casual civilian dress. "You never saw them. They were never here, and you certainly never overheard anything about a friendly fire incident. Clear?"

 

"Yes, ma'am," the new lieutenant whispered.

 

"Our orders are to secure the perimeter. Spread out and patrol."

 

 

 

Anderson returned to his office after the meeting and attended to the paperwork. It was well after sunset when he finally picked up the first of the dozen or so personnel files that had been sent over from Human Resources. The files had been sitting on his desk for just over four weeks, untouched. He should have read them before now, he knew. He also knew that part of the reason why he hadn't was that it would make Director O'Hara happy. O'Hara was a sound administrator who worked by the book. _Born to be a Suit_ , Anderson mused grimly. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he read through the first few, then stretched and pushed them aside. Increased security meant that one of these people, duly selected and recommended by Ted Born-to-be-a-Suit O'Hara, would be obliged to oversee almost every detail of Anderson's life. The successful applicant would have to learn the Security Chief's routine, and if not follow him everywhere in person, make sure that somebody did.

 

Anderson got up and fetched himself a cup of coffee from the executive kitchen. To further delay having to go back and read the personnel files, he didn't sit behind his desk once he'd returned to his office, but walked to the window and stared at the Center City skyline.

 

So this was what happened when the balloon went up. He'd always wondered.

 

He wished he didn't know.

 

The incident at Seahorse base was nagging at him, and he had Zark call up the personnel file for the officer who'd seen Keyop transmute.

 

The screen showed Jones' official photograph: a humourless expression gave the impression she was less than comfortable in front of the camera. She had a clean, if workmanlike record. There seemed to be little that was outstanding about her, one way or the other. She'd been born and educated in Britain to an academic family, had done her twelve months' Federal Service with G-Sec after graduating high school, then been recruited out of university. She held a degree in information management and library studies. She was the kind of officer who followed orders, worked by the book and did the job she was trained to do. She was trained as a protective services officer, liaison and protocol officer, and preceptor. She'd been stationed on Riga when the Federation Embassy had been attacked and acquitted herself well under fire, getting the embassy staff out safely and evacuating Federation citizens from the emergency zone. Her performance evaluations all noted that she was 'trustworthy,' 'discreet' 'competent,' and 'reliable.' The word, 'droll,' came up a few times and caught Anderson's attention. The other thing that caught Anderson's attention was her sudden departure from Planet Vega. She had been doing her usual reliable, efficient job there for a relatively short time when she had suddenly been transferred Earthside without an assignment to go to. 'Career enrichment,' said the file. Anderson interpreted this as meaning Jones had annoyed someone important. Given that she'd been working for the Veganian DPO, and given what Anderson knew of Wilson Greenaway, it wasn't difficult to join the dots. It was unlikely that Jones would be a security risk. At least that was one thing he didn't have to worry about. Anderson made to close the file and set it aside.

 

Anderson paused, his hand on the file cover. He let it fall open again and reached for the tele comm controls, his curiosity getting the better of him. "Zark," he said, opening a channel to Nerve Center. "What time is it in Carsarum City on Planet Vega?"

 

 _"Zero eight hundred, sir_ ," Zark said. _"They're just starting their day. It's a nice day, too. It's spring there, you know. The ambient temperature is forecast to reach --"_

 

Anderson decided to ignore this. "Patch me through to..." he consulted the file in front of him. "Sris Numanoglou." The Deputy Director Planetary Operations himself. What was the DDPO doing arranging a transfer for a mere major?

 

 _"Deputy Director Numanoglou here, sir,"_ the Veganian DDPO answered the call with a smile. _"What can I do for you?"_

 

"Tell me about Major Alberta Jones," Anderson said.

 

 _"Jones_?" Numanoglou's dusky complexion paled slightly. _"Um... Reliable_ ," he said. _"Discreet. Competent_."

 

"Why'd you transfer her out?" Anderson prompted.

 

 _"Has there been some kind of problem, Chief_?" Numanoglou asked.

 

"There won't be unless I don't get the answers I'm looking for," Anderson said mildly.

 

Numanoglou squirmed visibly. _"Jones was in the wrong place at the wrong time, sir. It was felt that it would be wise to remove her from the situation_."

 

"What situation was that?"

 

 _"A group of three officers, um... interrupted Director Greenaway, sir, during a... a... private meeting with a citizen... a socially... prominent citizen, and it was felt that certain... "_ Numanoglou had begun to perspire, _"certain... inferences could be drawn from the er... encounter_."

 

"Inferences?" Anderson grimaced. "You mean she caught Wilson with his pants down?"

 

Numanolglou swallowed, his face twisting into an expression of agony. _"I'm afraid so, sir_."

 

"With whom?" Anderson asked.

 

 _"I really couldn't say_ \--"

 

"I think you could," Anderson pointed out.

 

 _"The wife of the Archbishop of Carsarum, sir_."

 

"I see. So to avoid a scandal, you shipped a competent officer out and cited 'career enrichment' on her file?"

 

Numanoglou hung his head. _"All three, actually, sir_."

 

"Tell Wil I said hello," Anderson said, "and feel free to tell him about our conversation. I'll make sure I drop by the next time I'm on Vega. In the meantime, I'm sure you'll follow up on the other transfers and take a personal interest in ensuring those officers' careers don't suffer, won't you, Deputy Director?"

 

Anderson cut the connection and settled in to read Jones' file in detail.

 

 

 

Jason burst into the G-Force office area of the ISO Tower brandishing a piece of paper in one hand. "Hey! Guess what?"

 

The other four members of the team looked up from their workstations. "What?" Tiny asked.

 

"I'm _sane_!" Jason declared, grinning manically. "And I have a piece of paper that says so!"

 

Mark crossed the room in a few long strides and took possession of the paper. "Jason, this is a recipe sheet from the supermarket. For vegetarian lasagne."

 

"I didn't say _that_ was the _actual_ piece of paper in question," Jason pointed out, drawing himself up haughtily.

 

"So you had your debrief with Dr McCall," Tiny inferred. "Big deal. We're all sane. Even Keyop."

 

Keyop pitched a pen at Tiny. It pinwheeled through the air and the big pilot caught it in one hand. "What… you mean, _'even Keyop'_?" the boy stuttered angrily.

 

"Just windin' ya up," Tiny said with a chuckle.

 

"Quit it," Mark said. "Jason, if you need to blow off steam, hit the gym or something."

 

Jason walked over to the vacant chair at his workstation and fell into it, making it roll backward and hit the desk. "Am I the only one here who sees the absurdity in having us see a psychologist after _one_ engagement?"

 

"Yes," Mark said. "It was our first time tangling with the enemy and we blew up an office block!"

 

"There was nobody _in_ said office block at the time," Jason pointed out.

 

"What if there had been?"

 

Jason sobered. "Then I guess we might have needed to talk to someone."

 

Mark read the paper he'd taken from Jason. "Why do you have a recipe for vegetarian lasagne?"

 

Jason's hand moved in a swift arc and he reclaimed the paper. "The real question is why _don't you_ have a recipe for vegetarian lasagne? It's healthy."

 

"Will you two quit it?" Princess asked wearily. "Yeah, we saw action. Yeah, we knocked that ship out of the sky. Hopefully we saved a few lives and if we learned from the experience we'll save more. We're all safe and we're all sane, and to celebrate, Jason is making lasagne. Right, Jason?"

 

"Uh..." Jason glanced around nervously. "Have you seen the kitchen in my trailer?"

 

"Keyop and I live over a restaurant."

 

"Oh. Right."

 

 

 

Exhausted into mental numbness, Major Jones stepped out of the elevator and made her way to the office of the Internal Security Director. It looked as though her latest misadventure had landed her back in hot water. The executive floor was quiet. All the administrative staff had gone home and a lone security officer stood guard in the elevator lobby. Jones exchanged salutes with the lieutenant and was given directions to Director O'Hara's office.

 

The office door was ajar and Jones knocked. A voice responded with the word, "Enter!" and Jones complied..

 

Inside, Director O'Hara sat at his desk, and in one of two visitors' chairs lounged the Suit from the Seahorse Base incident, one elbow draped negligently over the backrest.

 

Jones felt her stomach clench. This could only mean serious trouble. Phrases like 'disciplinary action,' 'demotion,' and 'transfer to an asteroid mining operation' jostled for precedence in her mind.

 

"Sit down, Major Jones," O'Hara said, gesturing toward one of the empty chairs.

 

"Thank you, sir," Jones said, "I'd rather stand."

 

"Sit down, Major!" Anderson snapped. Jones considered making a show of defiance, then capitulated and took a seat in the nearest chair. Anderson looked Jones up and down.

 

"Tell me about Riga," he ordered.

 

"Riga?" Jones echoed. Whatever she'd expected, being asked about Riga wasn't it.

 

"Yes, Riga," Anderson said. "Earthlike planet, got invaded by Spectra?"

 

"Sorry sir. I was stationed at the Federation Embassy for almost four years. I was Personal Security Coordinator for the Ambassador. When Spectra invaded, the Embassy came under attack. We engaged the enemy and held them off long enough to evacuate all personnel with no serious injuries."

 

"And your last permanent assignment?" Anderson prompted.

 

Jones took a breath. "After the Embassy was abandoned I was redeployed as 2IC Security, Liaison and Protocol with the office of the DPO on Planet Vega, sir," she said. "My personal responsibility was the provision of protective and liaison services to visiting dignitaries and other VIPs, sir."

 

"And the circumstances under which you left?" Anderson prompted.

 

"Can't really comment, sir."

 

"Would you care to go into more detail, Major?" he probed.

 

Jones was certain she could hear the sound of her career gurgling as it went down the toilet. "No sir, I wouldn't."

 

"That doesn't sound very favourable," Anderson surmised.

 

"No, sir," Jones agreed.

 

"Tell me something," he said, "are you concealing the truth out of personal loyalty to Wilson Greenaway?"

 

Jones felt the blood drain from her face. "Sir?"

 

Anderson uttered a short and disdainful snort. "Deputy Director Numanoglu," he said, "had a crisis of conscience. With a little help."

 

Jones resumed breathing. "I see, sir." Anderson studied her for a long moment and she fought the impulse to back down and break eye contact.

 

"So," he prompted, "are you going to answer my question? You have permission to speak freely."

 

Jones gathered her thoughts and decided she might as well be blunt. "Unlike professional loyalty, sir, personal loyalty has to be earned," she said. "Since I'm speaking freely, sir, the only individual I've encountered who does anything out of personal loyalty to Director Greenaway is his dog. It's a particularly stupid Afghan Hound, sir."

 

Anderson suppressed a smile. "It appears," he said, "that you have a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Major Jones."

 

"I noticed that, too, sir," Jones said stiffly.

 

"And I suspect," Anderson continued, "that when someone like you forms a habit, you don't change it easily."

 

Jones stared straight ahead, focussing on the middle distance. "Just as you say, sir."

 

"I see only one solution," Anderson said. "If you're going to keep seeing things you're not cleared to see, then we'll just have to amend your clearance."

 

"Sir?" Jones stared at him.

 

Anderson turned to O'Hara. "She'll do," he said, and got up to leave.

 

"Excuse me, sir," Jones said, and got to her feet.

 

Anderson paused in mid stride and fixed Jones with a look not unlike a laser targeting system, "Do you have a question, Major?"

 

"Yes, sir: 'do' for what, sir?"

 

O'Hara cleared his throat. It was the pointed throat-clearing sound of someone who feels that they are long overdue to be heard. "If you'd care to allow me to speak," he said, "it _appears_ \--" the Internal Security Director gave Anderson a look of his own, but it didn't really measure up -- "that despite my personal recommendations and a comprehensive short list of highly qualified applicants --"

 

"Against whom Major Jones' resumé compares favourably or better," Anderson put in.

 

"You've just been selected," O'Hara continued, "to serve as security coordinator for our Chief of Staff."

 

Jones stared at Anderson. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.

 

"I never did introduce myself properly, did I?" Anderson said. A thought appeared to occur to him. "There's a question I forgot to ask you," he said. "Do you know how to make a good cup of coffee?"

 

Jones bristled: _Coffee?_ She took a careful, measured breath and met the Anderson stare head on before answering in as icy a tone as she could muster. "No, sir. I make tea."

 

This time, Anderson did smile. "I see," he said. "Thank you, Major." He turned and walked out of the room.

 

Jones remained standing, unnerved, as the door closed behind the man she now knew to be David Anderson. "Sir," she asked O'Hara, "what just happened?"

 

"He did," O'Hara said flatly. "Get used to it. Report to HR first thing tomorrow morning for your orders and fill out the paperwork. You'll be in charge of bringing the Chief's security detail up to strength and up to standard, starting tomorrow. And I'd learn to make coffee, if I were you."

 

"We shall see," Jones said darkly.

 

 

 

Security Chief Anderson flattened himself against the wall as the five members of G-Force ran for the elevators.

 

"Where's the fire?" he asked.

 

"Watch this space," Mark advised. "Jason's going to show us how not to cook lasagne."

 

"And you're going to eat your words!" Jason declared.

 

"Don't mind me," Anderson told them, and headed toward his office. "Just remember: keep it low-key out there."

 

Mark pressed the call button for the elevator and waited for the doors to open.

 

"So, Commander," Princess said, "is this going to be the new normal?"

 

"That depends, Princess," Mark said.

 

"What's it... depend on?" Keyop asked.

 

"On whether Jason's any good at making lasagne, I guess."

 

_fin_

 


End file.
